Mentalist Episode Tag: Red and Itchy, 5x21
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Jane does some whittling. Set post-episode. Friendship/Humor/Hints of Jisbon. Spoilers, 5x20, 21, and 22. Rated T for mild language.


A/N: I loved this episode! Two lingering questions answered (how often does THAT happen?!), and an exciting, funny plot. I did really feel for LaRoche after this, and he has become the character I had hoped for when I wrote "In the Red."

I wrote this tag after a suggestion from my friends, Nerwen Aldarion and Tinuviel Undomiel. Thanks for the great idea, guys! Hope you like what I did with it.

**Episode Tag: "Red and Itchy", 5x21**

"What do you think he's doing up there?" asked Rigsby, mouth full, his eyes rising heavenward.

"Lisbon says he's taking some time off," said Cho, eyes still on his computer screen.

"Oh? Where's he going?"

"Nowhere," Cho replied.

"Well, that's creepy."

"You're eating a liverwurst and pickle sandwich. Now that's creepy."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Upstairs, in his attic fortress, Jane sat in his desk chair contemplating his Red John board. He had cut his list of suspects down to thirty, and he was going to use this time away from his consultant gig to whittle away still more. Thinking of it metaphorically, he'd started his whittling with a giant redwood (over 2,000 people), and now he was down to a chopstick (30). Before long, he'd carve the names down further until he had a single toothpick, which he'd simply…snap in two. Well, that was the hope. Realistically, he knew nothing would be simple about trapping Red John, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

He wondered if Lisbon would be amused by his whittling metaphor. He grinned a little, then purposefully pushed the thought of his partner aside. No interruptions, he told himself, not even of the amusing kind. This time of peace was necessary to force him to focus all his considerable inductive abilities upon narrowing down his list. And Lisbon promised she would give this to him. One week. That's all he'd asked.

By day three, he was bored out of his mind. He'd cut his list down to twenty though, so that was definitely progress. Aside from going downstairs to use the facilities and the shower in the basement gym, he'd been avoiding the rest of the team, especially Lisbon, who could engage him in enticing, distracting banter at the drop of a hat. She was to be avoided at all costs.

He'd paid the mailroom guy to deliver two take-out meals a day, and breakfast was filched donuts or muffins from the break room. He'd been sleeping on his makeshift cot, but just two nights in a row on the thing were already starting to take its toll. He was not a young man anymore, and he really missed his couch in the bullpen. He told himself these minor discomforts were nothing compared to the satisfaction of finding his family's murderer. So he bucked up and pulled his desk chair directly in front of his suspect board, leaned back…and promptly fell asleep.

The sound of paper scratching across the wooden floor jarred him awake, and he looked around, momentarily disoriented. His eye was drawn to a piece of folded yellow legal paper that had been slipped beneath the door. He stared at it a full minute before curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up, stretched his stiff back, and walked over to the new delivery. It was folded in fourths, much like junior high students did when they passed notes. He unfolded it, a bemused expression lighting his face. He recognized Lisbon's neat, deliberate handwriting immediately.

_Dear Jane,_

_I hope this meets the standard of "radio silence." You asked me not to text, call, or knock on your door, so I have resorted to the most archaic form of communication I could think of outside of tom-toms and smoke signals. _

_I was just wondering if you were all right, and thought I'd ask if there was anything more you needed to help you in your meditations. Not pushing or anything, just asking politely, one concerned friend to another. Is it warm enough up there? Do you need another blanket? Are you eating well?_

_You don't have to answer unless you need something—I'm sure I've taken enough of your time already. I won't even bother telling you about the new case we caught. We'll handle it though; don't worry (yes, I now you're really not worried). I'll check outside the door later to see if you reply (I promise I won't knock!)._

_Anyway, I hope you are making progress. I'm here if you'd like to bounce some ideas off of someone._

_Teresa_

Jane ran his hands over his face and into his unruly hair. He shook his head in exasperation. She really couldn't leave him alone, could she? But the thought made him feel oddly warm inside, and he grinned in amusement. He reread her note and imagined her changing expressions as she'd written it. He found he'd missed her sarcasm as much as her dimples.

With a sigh, he rolled his chair back to his desk and penned a reply.

_Dear Lisbon, _

_Here I thought __**I**__ was the one who couldn't follow rules. Thanks for your kind inquiry, but I am quite content up here, and making good progress, so you needn't worry about me, though your concern is touching. _

_I am certain you will do just fine with your new case. Best of luck. If I need anything, you'll be the first to know._

_Jane_

He folded his note in an intricate way, where one had to pull a tab in just the right manner to release the letter for reading, then, he slid it under the door for her to retrieve. Two hours later, he heard her moving outside the attic door, and he paused at his desk, cocking his head to listen. He imagined her bending and picking up the letter, then walking on tiptoe back to the stairway as she tried to figure out how to open the damn thing. He was surprised at how tempted he was to slide open the door, just to see her familiar face.

It was odd how just that brief contact with Lisbon seemed to energize him, and he threw himself back into his work, successfully discarding four more suspects by dinnertime. At five o'clock, he heard the mail guy's distinctive footsteps near his door, but the man followed his instructions and did not knock. Jane rose and retrieved his bag of tacos purchased from the taco truck down the street. Inside the white paper sack, atop the handful of napkins, he found another sheet from a legal pad. Lisbon must have stopped Mail Guy on his way up to deliver his dinner.

_Jane,_

_Glad you are making some headway. Hypothetical question: Where would a ten-year-old boy hide his father's 9 mm? Just curious about your thoughts. Keep doing what you're doing._

_Lisbon_

"Lisbon, you sneaky little—"

He could never resist a case involving an endangered child, and she damn well knew it. He tore off another sheet of paper.

_Dearest Lisbon:_

_It is in a cigar box or a lunch box buried beneath a tree in the backyard. If it has a tree house, that's the one. You have to think like a little boy, Lisbon._

_Jane._

_P.S. __Hypothetical, __my eye._

He set down his pen and was about to fold the missive, when his brow suddently furrowed, and he promptly added one more postscript:

_P.P.S.S. Be careful._

Once he'd slid the note under the door, it was only a matter of minutes until he heard the patter of little feet, and then the quick scamper as Lisbon ran back to the team with his advice. She'd obviously been hovering at the top of the stairs, lying in wait of his reply.

He grinned, and turned his attention back to the task at hand.

He didn't hear from Lisbon the next day.

Or the next.

He was starting to get a little worried, though he tamped down that emotion and shaved five more suspects off his list.

That night, another note was slipped under his door.

_Jane,_

_Found the gun. Thanks. I knew if anyone thought like a little boy, it was you. The father's in custody and the boy is okay._

_I'll try not to bother you anymore. After this, I mean, ha ha._

_Teresa_

"So it's back to _Teresa,_ eh?"

He was relieved the case had been solved with no child hurt, and, his mind at ease, he put it to use on his considerably smaller list.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon hated the week without him. It was too reminiscent of his Las Vegas sabbatical for one thing, but at least he was communicating with her this time. Well, somewhat. She was torn between wanting him to focus on Red John so they could find the bastard at last, but she was also hurt that he wasn't asking for her help. She'd met nearly everyone he had over the past decade; surely she could have been of some assistance.

He'd told her before he went up to his attic that she would be more of a distraction than a help to him, and she didn't quite know what to think of that. In a way, it was a compliment, but it could also mean something else entirely—one never knew with Patrick Jane. The enigmatic jerk.

When the team had gotten the case of the boy trying to cover for his murdering father, she thought Jane might have come out of hiding for that. Instead, he'd offered the key to solving the case, and he'd had the luxury of never having to leave the comfort (?) of his hideaway. He'd literally called in a case just a couple of weeks ago, and the one last week, he'd nearly passed on all together, except she'd told him she needed him. Not _they_ needed, but _she_ needed.

She wondered if she could ever play that card again, never mind that it had touched her beyond words that he would "do anything" for her. But she hadn't asked. Hadn't begged. She was finally beginning to understand that when his head was elsewhere (i.e., on Red John), he was not going to be good company to anyone, and everything else he did was even more half-assed than usual.

But he _had_ answered her letters. At first she'd written as a matter of concern, but then it was so good to keep in touch with his state of mind (and his progress) that she'd kept on writing them and leaving them. And he had answered them, every one.

By the evening of day seven, however, she was so anxious to actually see him, that at five o'clock sharp—exactly seven days since she'd last laid eyes on him—she went upstairs to his door. She wasn't going to knock, but she had another letter in hand, reminding him it was time to get back to the real world. He might only be working at the CBI as a means to find Red John, but they were still paying him to do a job. Enough was e—

She had reached the top of the stairs when she heard the familiar jangle of his padlock and the heavy slide of the door to his lair. He was coming out! She almost turned to sneak back down to her office, but he looked up and saw her there, and his smile lit up the dank corridor.

"Lisbon!"

She stealthily crumbled the note in her fist and returned his smile.

"Hi! I was uh, just—it's been seven days," she finished lamely, feeling her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. It felt like he'd caught her stalking him. He locked his door and met her at the stairs.

"Yes, you're right. I was just coming down to see if you'd like to go out for a celebratory dinner."

Her eyes widened. "Did you—?"

"No, I haven't whittled down my list to one, but I'm down to my final seven."

"Well, that _is_ something worth celebrating," she said.

"I think so. It was a good week. Thanks for your help in this. I'm so close now, Lisbon, I can taste it." His eyes gleamed with an excitement that was contagious. "And now," he finished, "I really could use your help."

Her smile faltered a little as unexpected emotion welled up within her. Jane's eyes dimmed with concern.

"What is it, Lisbon?"

She blinked rapidly, but then forced her lips to revert back to a smile. "Nothing. Good. Sure. Of course, I'm happy to help."

"Good," he said skeptically, but he was too much of a gentleman to comment. "Shall we?" he said, indicating with his hand for her to precede him down the stairs.

"Yes, let's go."

At the bottom of the stairs, Jane suddenly reached for her wrist.

"Got something for me, Lisbon?"

He turned over her hand and she slowly and reluctantly opened it.

Jane took the slip of paper—plain white this time—and un-crumpled it.

_Jane,_

_It's time to come out now. I miss you._

_Teresa_

He didn't comment, but dropped the note into his suit coat pocket. Then he brought out a note of his own. He pressed a yellow sticky note into her open palm.

_Teresa,_

_I missed you too._

_Jane _

She looked down at it a moment and then her gaze rose to meet his in surprise.

"But how did you…?"

"Aw, Lisbon," he said, his hand going to her lower back to steer her toward the elevator. "Surely I haven't been away that long…"

**A/N: Counting down the days! Let us all keep our fingers crossed for a Jisbon kiss. Nerwen and I have a long-standing prediction that it will happen in the finale. And my personal prediction is that we will know who Red John is, but Jane won't. **

**Thanks for reading this tag. I know I'm behind in replies, but after this last week of school, I'll have all the time in the world…**


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